The Walleld Flower (7 page)

They worked steadily for over twenty minutes, and Katie wondered just what was taking Rose so long to make those copies.

As though in answer to her silent pleas for release, a voice called up the stairs. “Yoo-hoo, Katie—Janice!

“Up here! Janice, Rose is back.” Katie hoped Janice would take the hint and knock off for the day.

Rose appeared in the open doorway and did a classic double take at Katie’s rumpled and dirty clothes. “What happened to you?”

“I’ll explain later,” she whispered. “I think I found something we can use to track Heather’s connection with this house.”

“I did, too,” Rose said. “Wait ’til I tell you—”

“Katie!” Janice called.

“Shhh! Go along with everything I say, will you?” Katie hissed.

Before Rose could answer, Janice popped up behind her. Somehow she didn’t look half as grubby as Katie felt.

“Here you are,” Rose said, handing Janice the property abstract. “Fascinating reading. The house was built in 1897.
For nearly five decades, the surrounding land was a peach orchard.”

“Interesting. I’m looking forward to reading it myself later. Rose, I told Janice that you were a bit of an expert at ephemera and that you’d be glad to take a look at some of the papers here and give her an estimate on their worth.”

“Er… yes,” Rose said, sounding quite unsure of herself. “Of course.”

“Would you mind if we took a couple of cartons to Artisans Alley to study the contents?” Katie asked.

“I don’t know,” Janice said, sounding suddenly wary.

“I assure you, I’ve dealt with hundreds of customers when liquidating estates,” Rose said. “It’s standard procedure to have time to study the goods when trying to estimate the value of the property.” She sounded so sincere, even Katie wanted to believe her.

“Well, maybe if you just took one carton and we could talk about the other stuff later.”

“Certainly,” Katie said. “We’ll just take—” She bent down, picking up the carton she’d chosen up in the attic. “This one.”

Katie bent her knees as she hefted the box, wishing a few longshoremen had perched in her family tree. Of course, Detective Davenport would probably wring her neck if he found out what she was up to, but she was willing to take the chance.

Feeling smug, Katie forced a smile as she faced Janice. “We’ll let you know tomorrow morning if there’s anything of material worth in here.”

“I’ll be here all day,” Janice said with resignation.

Katie nodded and headed for the stairs, with Rose following in her wake. She passed through the soon-to-be-restored entryway, stepped over the threshold, and stopped dead. A sharp-eyed Detective Davenport was making a beeline for her, his gaze focused on the box.

“What are you up to, Mrs. Bonner?” Davenport demanded as he charged up the Webster mansion’s wooden porch stairs.

Katie swallowed. The detective’s normally ruddy complexion had darkened considerably. “Just visiting Janice—Mrs. Ryan,” she amended, hoping her voice didn’t convey the guilt she felt.

Davenport eyed the box in her arms. The very heavy box, which she was sure must contain lead ingots. She shifted its weight, leaning the carton against the doorjamb to ease the ache already building in her arms.

“And what have you got there?”

Katie worked at a bland expression. “Just some ephemera. Janice needs a quote on their value.” She leaned closer, whispering to Davenport, “You have no idea how much antique Valentines can be worth. Especially if they’re three-dimensional.”

“I’m not that stupid, Mrs. Bonner. That looks like papers to me. Papers that might be instrumental to my investigation.”

Katie glanced at an agitated Rose standing beside her. She shifted her gaze back to Davenport. “Do you really think you might find something of use in this old box of junk?”

“I won’t know that until you hand it over.” He held out his arms.

Katie gave him the box, hoping its dusty surface would leave indelible marks on Davenport’s raincoat. “We’ve got first dibs on buying them, so please handle them carefully,” she admonished, but Davenport wasn’t taken in by her innocent act.

“I always handle evidence carefully.” He turned to glower at Janice. “Mrs. Ryan, don’t let anything of this nature leave the building without the Sheriff’s Office’s permission.”

Janice’s cheeks flushed. “Well, you might have said so before this, Detective. And I want a receipt for anything you take.”

Good for you,
Katie silently cheered. She glanced at her watch. “Artisans Alley closes in half an hour. We’d better get back, Rose. See you later, Janice.”

Rose glared at the detective and obediently followed.

They were halfway across the lot before Rose spoke. “Bad luck, him showing up like that.”

“Yes. We’ll have to concentrate on the property abstract for now.”

“It’s a gold mine of information, too. One of the former owners was Burt Donahue.”

“Who?”

“Just the biggest auctioneer in the county. I had no idea he’d dabbled in real estate all those years ago.”

“Tell me more,” Katie said as they entered Artisans Alley via the back door into the vendors’ lounge.

Before Rose could utter another word, Polly Bremerton’s shrill voice cut the air. “Katie!”

Katie didn’t even slow down, continuing straight to her
office. Rose was smart enough to head in the opposite direction. If Polly didn’t rant and rave over some imagined slight or petty infraction of Artisans Alley’s loose set of rules, she’d harp about Edie, and Katie was determined to keep Polly’s gripes behind closed doors and beyond customers’ ears.

But before Polly could corner her, Vance intercepted Katie in the vendors’ lounge. “Gilda Ringwald stopped by while you were out. She left a box on your desk,” he said with disdain.

Katie’s heart sank. No doubt the favors Gilda had mentioned. And what was she supposed to do with them anyway?

Katie approached the cardboard carton as though it were filled with deadly rattlesnakes. She disentangled the interleaved flaps and looked inside. Nestled on top of a big wad of lilac-colored tulle was a roll of ivory satin ribbon and two large bags of deep purple Jordan almonds. Katie frowned. She’d never been fond of the candy-covered nuts—especially after cracking a tooth on one several years before. And purple?

She dug through the box, looking for some kind of list or instructions. Nothing. How many little sachets did Gilda expect her to make? It was then she caught sight of the plastic-enshrouded garment that hung from the pull on the top drawer of her file cabinet.

“Purple?” she cried, horrified. “The dress I’m supposed to wear to this wedding is purple?”

“Oh, yeah,” Vance said, standing in the doorway. “I forgot to mention she dropped off something else, too.”

Katie lifted the dress from the pull and whisked off the plastic to gaze at the monstrosity. First of all, it was sleeveless—and this was April in Western New York. She’d surely freeze to death wearing this. The color—that of a ripe eggplant—was bad enough, but while the front was
scoop-necked, the back of the dress was entirely missing. The skirt seemed to go on and on and on. Had Gilda’s friend with the broken leg been a giantess?

Before Katie could make sense of this new development, Polly stormed into her office and bellowed, “She’s at it again!”

“Please close the door—and lower your voice,” Katie said, then returned the dress to its makeshift hook and opened her desk drawer, pawing through the contents until she found a small bottle of liquid hand sanitizer. She should’ve thought of using the cleaner before she touched the dress—not that any dirt would show on the deep purple color.

The door banged and an impatient Polly stood before Katie, her face twisted in a scowl.

Katie took her time, rubbing the solution into her palms. It was then she noticed the property abstract on the blotter and wished she could examine it instead of listening to Polly vent her paranoia. Taking a Kleenex from her desktop box, she wiped off some of the dirt before tossing the tissue into her wastebasket.

She pulled her chair away from the desk, sat down, and studied the stern, solid woman before her. In a crisp white blouse, dark wool skirt, heavy support hose, and brown, lace-up sensible shoes, Polly probably would’ve made an excellent librarian—half a century ago. She prided herself on her knowledge of dolls, the arts, and anything to do with the craft and history of sewing, looking down on anyone who wasn’t as savvy. Katie counted herself among that crowd.

“What can I do for you, Polly?” Katie asked at last, using every ounce of patience she could muster.

“It’s that
crafter
. She’s stealing my merchandise again!”

Katie sighed and grabbed a toffee from the jar on her desk. “What’s missing?”

“Several vintage darning eggs, antique pincushions, antique buttons—”

Sewing items! Polly could sew.

Katie glanced at the dress that needed to be shortened—thought about asking Polly for a favor, and then abruptly changed her mind. Polly might ruin the dress out of spite… and then she’d be forced to wear something different at the wedding. Ah, a plan! But Gilda probably loved the dress. Why else had she picked it? Or did she want to make sure that her matron of honor couldn’t take center stage on
her
special day?

Buttons, buttons,
Katie reminded herself. “Were these buttons on cards or loose?”

“On cards, of course. They’re handmade and
very
expensive.”

Katie frowned. “The items you’ve mentioned are all small, things that can easily be concealed in a pocket or purse. It sounds more like a shoplifter to me.”

“I
know
it’s that Silver woman,” Polly asserted.

“What’s your proof?”

Polly straightened in indignation, as though her word alone should sentence poor Edie to years in the slammer. “She’s always hanging around when I come in to straighten my booth.”

Katie unwrapped her candy. “Well, her booth
is
next to yours.”

“And I’d like that to change. I’ve been a vendor here ages longer than Edie—”

“According to Ezra’s records, your booth was assigned only three months before Edie came in.”

Polly’s eyes bulged. She hadn’t expected to be caught in a lie. “My merchandise is superior quality goods. Hand-crafted bisque and fabric dolls of exquisite quality, not crap from China.”

“Now, Polly, you know why we had to let crafters into Artisans Alley. It was either that or raise the rent so that nobody made a profit. Or I could have let the business go under. Since those crafters came on board, Artisans Alley has averaged a substantial increase in sales, for the fine-arts
pieces
and
small craft items. Almost everyone has made more money in the past six months.”

“I haven’t!”

“Have you considered lowering your prices or participating in the sales events we’ve held?”

“I want a new booth location,” Polly demanded.

Katie forced herself to keep a level voice. “As I’ve explained in the past, there’s a waiting list. Vendors who’ve been here a lot longer want the same thing.”

“Are they willing to pay extra for the privilege?”

Katie raised an eyebrow. Giving Polly preferential treatment, even for a fee, would cause an uproar with the rest of the Artisans Alley dealers. It wouldn’t be worth the hassle.

“I’m sorry, Polly, you’ll just have to be patient. In the meantime, I’ll ask those walking security to pay special attention to your booth.”

Polly’s face flushed with anger. “It’s not fair. It’s just not fair!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s all I can do without proof.”

“You’ve bent over backward to accommodate those new people. You could do a lot more for those of us who’ve been here for the long haul.”

Katie sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Invite someone famous in to give a free talk. Some of the professors from the Rochester Institute of Technology.”

“That’s a bit beyond our budget—unless they’re willing to do it for free.”

“Then call in an appraiser who’ll tell customers what their works of fine art are worth.”

Katie thought about it. “That might be workable.”

“We could also do special displays out in the lobby, showing customers how to decorate their homes with our products.”

“Another good suggestion. Thank you, Polly.”

Polly scowled. “I see no reason for you to patronize me, Mrs. Bonner.”

Katie’s jaw clenched. “I’m serious, Polly. And I’ll do what I can to make your suggestions happen.”

Polly’s mouth tightened, but before she could speak, a sharp, insistent knock sounded—just the disruption Katie could’ve hoped for. She abandoned her toffee, and rose, sidling past Polly to open the door. Standing with a hand poised to knock again was Edie Silver. A marked contrast to prim and proper Polly, Edie looked like somebody’s grandma, from her pink polyester pantsuit to her Velcro-clasped sneakers. Only now her face was twisted with agitation.

“Oh, Katie—it’s Rose. You’ve got to do something!”

“What’s wrong?”

“She found this morning’s newspaper and…”

Katie had forgotten all about the headline story indicating Heather had been alive when she’d been entombed in the old Webster mansion’s walls. “Where is she?”